Tag Archives: food

Excursions, Postcards

Airing on the B-side of caution ….

Woke up Friday morning to … pestilence. 

Which comes from the Latin word pestilentia, meaning unhealthy or noxious, ICYI.  

Friday’s edition came from the wildfires in Canada, triggering some of the worst air quality ever recorded in these parts. 

Keeping in mind that these parts were once described as ‘hell with the lid off’ by journalist James Parton during the Industrial Revolution, one could say that noxious air is in our DNA.

And not mean it figuratively. 

Sigh. 

I planned to take Friday afternoon off. 

Last Christmas a friend’s wife (also a friend) messaged me that she was surprising her husband with tickets for a July concert, and asked if I’d go with him. 

I was touched that she thought of me.  

Then she mentioned that the band was Motley Crud.

Sorry, I let auto-correct do its thing there.  

I was never much of a Motley Crue fan growing up, though I was good friends with many who were.

In full disclosure I have zero desire to see Motley Crue in the Year of our Lord 2026.

But I told my friend’s wife the truth — that I appreciated her husband more than I detested the present vocal stylings of Vince Neil, and that I’d be honored to share in the light of her thoughtfulness. 

I had months to gird my loins for the darkness that is attending any concert at Star Lake Amphitheater. 

Which hasn’t been called that in proly 25 years, during which the venue has undergone a number of corporate sponsorship name changes, none of which anyone in my peer group acknowledges.

Why a company would pay money to put their name on something so awful remains a mystery to me. 

The worst part of the Star Lake experience is getting in and out of the venue, which, for big draws, can mean waiting in a line of cars for several hours on either side of a show. 

It’s unequivocally awful. 

All that said, heading into this week, I was looking forward to seeing my friend Mike.  

And if I allowed myself to squint at things, the idea of being outside with a good friend on a summer Friday night, in proximity to thirst-slaking beverage, even with ‘music-adjacent’ sounds wafting in the air… holds great appeal to me. 

But I can’t do pestilence.

On Friday I unplugged from work around 1 p.m., and left the house to run a couple errands. 

Stepping outside was awful. Just walking into the post office and back to my car was misery. At the bank I tried in vain to hold my breath from the parking lot to the front door. 

When I got home I called Mike and told him the truth — that while I was genuinely looking forward to spending time with him, I was genuinely dreading the idea of standing outside for several hours in the noxious pestilence. 

By which I meant the wildfire smog … not Vince Neil’s vocal stylings. 

I had to tap out. 

It broke my heart to tell him.

But Mike totally understood, his grace triggering the best exhale I would enjoy on Friday. 

I spent my unexpectedly open afternoon chipping away at the herculean task that is cleaning out our garage. 

A few hours later I came upstairs and asked Karry if she was up for grabbing a bite. 

After a long week she didn’t want to go far or be out long. 

There aren’t many good choices close to us.

We made the cardinal error of getting in the car without first choosing a destination.

Which we will never — ever — do again.  

For reasons I cannot explain but will forever regret, we ended up in the Olive Garden parking lot. 

Before getting out of the car, Karry cautioned that we should skip the salad. 

For the record, aside from the post-meal Andy’s Candies, the bottomless salad is the only thing I enjoy at Olive Garden.

I suggested we consult the Internet. 

So for the evening’s amuse bouche, we scrolled the interwebs for a pre-dinner primer on the diarrhea-causing parasite cyclospora, which appeared to be confined to a supplier of Taco Bells.

“Internet seems to think we’re OK here,” I reported. 

We exited the car and I walked to the front door breathing into the crook of my arm like a capeless Dracula. 

As we waited to be seated, a staff person approached. 

“Just so you know, we’re out of lettuce,” she said. 

Sigh.  

They sat us in a corner booth. Server took our drink order. Karry ordered an iced tea with lemon. 

“We’re out of lemons.” 

I was going to order a water with lemon. 

When life gives you lemons, it’s hard to make lemonade … when life takes away your lemons. 

While perusing the menu at Olive Garden, I may have set a world record for the longest uninterrupted exhale during a Code Maroon air-quality alert.

“Can I get you some soup?” our server asked after bringing our lemon-less beverages. 

I always go for the salad, but remembered that Olive Garden has a wedding-soup-adjacent option that’s not on the menu, and asked for that. 

Karry likes their chicken gnocchi soup. 

When our server returned with our bowls, she asked if we’d like grated cheese. 

I’m conditioned to always answer that Olive Garden question in the affirmative. 

I love cheese on my bottomless salad. 

And on my pasta. 

I said yes out of habit. 

Whereupon I discovered that God did not intend the meatballs in their wedding-soup-adjacent soup to be cheesed. 

It was just … wrong.

Karry noticed the involuntary rictus conquering my face. 

Incidentally, I think Involuntary Rictus may have been Motley Crue’s opener at Star Lake.

Not that I looked. 

“Is it OK?” 

“It’s awful,” I said, dropping my spoon in the bowl. 

I realize that it proly didn’t help that I still had diarrhea-causing parasites on my mind.

“Can I get you something else?” our server asked when she returned to take our meal orders. 

Though I was still reeling, my brain remembered how much I enjoy saying the syllables “pah-stuh-fah-ZOOL,” which splashed some metaphorical lemon-less water on my face. 

Karry went with eggplant. I went lasagna. 

I swear it only seemed like two minutes before our server returned with our entrees. 

“Careful, these are hot,” she said as she gingerly put our plates down in front of us. 

“Would you like some cheese?” 

Even in the recent wake of the fouling of my soup, there’s only one answer to that question. 

“Bring it,” said the voice in my head as I nodded.

I let her pile a small ebenezer of grated cheese atop my smokin’ hot lasagna. 

“That was fast,” Karry said after our server left and we stared at our steaming dishes. 

Startlingly so.

I noticed that the sauce had been baked dry on both our plates in their apparently impressively and insanely powerful ovens. 

All eight corners of our two dishes were a little scorched. 

Not awfully so … just a couple exits north of gooey. 

Seemed on point in a world where everything seems on blast these days.  

“At least they’re done,” Karry said.

My wife possesses a subtle gift for matching dry times with dryer humor.

Not sure she’s trying to be funny … but I appreciate it nonetheless. 

Just like I appreciate how OG does its best to create ambience with a playlist overly reliant on Dean Martin. 

In my experience there are few circumstances in life that cannot be made less grating by sprinkling some aged Rat Pack on it.

Listening to Dean-o crooning “a love as warm as wine” to his Innamorata made me appreciate sitting in a corner booth on a Friday night, across from the person whose hand I love to hold more than anyone else’s in the world.

I mean, if you squint at it, it was almost a classic scene from an Italian-adjacent restaurant.  

“We should’ve gone to Angelo’s,” my Innamorata said a couple minutes later. 

Angelo’s is a local institution, and everything you want in a family-run red-sauce cathedral. 

Only like five minutes from our house. 

Last time we went we were delightfully reminded/surprised how good it was.

Which is why we will never — ever — get in the car again without locking down a destination first. 

After bringing Karry a to-go box to re-plant her eggplant, our server asked if we wanted any dessert.

I shook my head no.

“Do you like the candies?” she asked. 

“I have been saving room for dessert,” said the voice in my head as I nodded. 

She dropped a fistful on the table along with our check. 

It was the only time all night she didn’t ask me if I’d like some cheese.

Make no mistake … I would’ve said yes.

Karry took one mint and let me have the rest. 

I’m not saying that unwrapping a fistful of Andy’s Candies and popping them in my mouth like Percocet made me forget all about diarrhea-causing parasites, rictus-triggering cheese soup, scorched corners, and the noxious pestilence awaiting us outside.

It would take more than all the lemons that Olive Garden didn’t have to make lemonade out of that. 

I’m just saying that sitting in a corner booth Friday night staving off existential crisis, I had a lot of feelings. 

And I proceeded to eat all of them. 

“You ready?” Karry asked. 

And as we got up and walked to the front door, I raised my right arm to re-crook my nose as Dean Martin was forced from the stage by the evening’s headliner … involuntary rictus. 

But if I allowed myself to squint at things, what propelled me forward as I tried in vain to hold my breath on the way back to the car was a lyric from, if not my favorite, my least-detested Motley Crue song of all time. 

I’m on my way … I’m on my way … home sweet home. 

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Postcards

Recipes ….

Left the house yesterday morning to meet my sister for coffee. 

There are few more lovely reasons to leave the house on a Saturday morning. 

Figured I’d swing by the post office first to pick up some stamps.

Planned to write my daughter her weekly postcard after having coffee with my big sister. 

No line when I got inside. 

Saw Maria standing behind the counter … which made me smile. 

Maria’s worked at the post office for 28 years, if I remember correctly. 

She told me last time I picked up a lasagna from her. 

Not at the post office.

At her tender restaurant A la Maria’s, on LeMoyne, where she spends her weekday evenings … lovingly making her Mom’s old Italian recipes.

Maria’s place holds a special place in my heart. 

When Karry and I got married and moved into the World’s Tiniest Apartment in East Washington, Maria’s mother ran a restaurant out of the basement of her home a couple blocks from us. 

In our early Kraft-Mac-and-Cheese-Can-of-Peas-for-Dinner days, Paesano’s was our one monthly splurge. 

Saturday night.

If the weather was nice we’d walk. 

It was BYOB so we made a ritual of picking up a $10 bottle of wine.

Made sure we were in our seats by 7 o’clock, so we could watch X-Files re-runs on the big TV that hung in the dining area …

… while slow savoring food made with love from an Italian mother’s kitchen.  

We’d take our time walking our full bellies back home — the next day’s leftover lunch in my left hand, Karry’s hand in my right. 

Everything my Saturday night could ever want back then. 

Maria’s lasagna is perfection. 

Architectural is the best way to describe it. 

Sharp corners. Rectilinear. Towering. 

Don’t know how she does it.

Every lasagna we’ve ever made at home comes out of the pan (deliciously) gloopy.

Maria’s could serve as a tornado shelter. 

Comes with about a 1/2 inch of standing red sauce pooling in the bottom of the to go container. 

Every time I get home and crack open the styrofoam box, Pavarotti sings ‘La donna è mobile’ in my head.

Comes with two thin slices of Italian bread, essential sponges for sopping up every last drop from the plate when you’ve sadly run out of lasagna.

When I put my sopped-clean-post-lasagna plate in the dish washer, the other dishes are like, “I think you meant to put this back in the cabinet.” 

So it should come as no surprise how it made me smile to see Maria behind the counter at the post office yesterday morning.

“Miss Maria,” I greeted.

“Mr. Riddell.”

“Postcard stamps?” I asked. 

“Cleaned out. Election folks bought ‘em all up.”

“Awwww. Really?”

Asked her when they might get more in. She said they’re on order, from Kansas.

“They send them regular mail … so, who knows?”

Coming from a post office person, the “Who knows?” struck me as funny. 

She said I could try the McMurray store. They have everything there. 

I thanked her for letting me know, and exhaled defeatedly, as I didn’t have the time nor inclination for a special trip. 

Was just about to say out loud that my visit wasn’t in vain, though, since I got to see her …  

… when Maria interjected. 

“Otherwise, you’d have to go two busses and some grapes.”

“Uh …. I’m sorry, what?”

“To make up the 61 cents,” she said.

Pre-caffeinated, I wasn’t following at all. 

She pulls out her drawer, takes out a couple packs of stamps. 

Starts to do math. 

Explains the busses are 28 cents … 

“So two of those …. plus a five cent stamp,” she says, holding up a pack of grape stamps. 

“So you’d need a lot of stamps,” she chuckled.

“Wait …,” I said. “Postcard stamps are 61 cents?”

“Yep. Regular stamps are 78 cents, post cards are 61.”

I had no idea. 

In my mind I thought postcard stamps were like 19 cents.

Sixty-one cents …  for such little real estate.  

I felt dumb … for having hundreds of post cards at home. 

She started to put the booklets back in her drawer, when I interjected. 

“I’ll take the busses and grapes,” I said. 

“Oh, you want to do that?” she asked.

“Just to get me through today,” I said. 

What I meant was that I’d just take a booklet of each as an interim solution. 

“Oh, so you just want enough for one?” she asked.  

I didn’t think you could do that.

I smiled at the smile on her face as I watched her tearing off a postcard’s worth of individual stamps from their booklets. 

“I guess I’m going to have to write smaller,” I said out loud. 

She broke apart the three I needed, laid them loose on the counter. 

Then an idea popped into her head.

“Here’s what you do ….” 

I watched her pick up a bus, peel it off, and carefully lay it across the other bus. 

Wasn’t sure what she was doing … maybe just consolidating onto one piece rather than sending me out with three loose stamps? 

Then she peeled the grape and surgically laid it across the second bus. 

“There …. That’s what you do,” she said. 

Proudly. 

“Leaves you more room to write,” she said. 

Oh. 

“So you can lay them across each other like that on the post card?” I asked. 

“Yep,” she said. “Only the ‘USA’ needs to be showing.” 

And I giggled out loud …  like a five-year-old who’d just seen an adult perform magic.

You should see what she does with a lasagna, I’m tellin’ ya. 

In the town where I live, there’s a person who will not only let a clueless, pre-caffeinated little brother cobble together a postcard’s worth of stamps … but will take the time to bunch ‘em as tight as the law allows … so he has as much room as possible to write to his daughter about how much he misses her.

__

And after just the loveliest visit with my big sister …

… I took out my favorite pen …

… and the postcard I’d plucked special from my massive, impractical inventory …

… took my time writing small and neat …

… doing my best to make every word count …

… with all the reverence I could muster …

… as I imagined a mother might …

… writing down her favorite recipes for posterity.

Everything my Saturday morning could ever want.  

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Postcards

Taco Night

I don’t remember if it fell across a couple years, or just one. 

Don’t remember exactly how old we were. Early 20’s I think. 

Don’t remember how often, or how many instances of it there were. 

I just know that when Bill would drop Taco Night on the calendar … 

… some of us would fast like it was Ramadan. 

Mrs. Sochko makin’ tacos. 

I remember the first time I attended … popping into the kitchen to say hello and thank you, and noticing she was pan frying the tortillas. 

In our house we just opened the box and took the shells out of the plastic bag. 

I remember thinking, “What is this sorcery?” 

I can’t even remember who all would show up. 

Just that there was always a table-full: Bill, his older brother Danny, and Mr. Sochko in their assigned seats, and the rest of us filling in the others. 

Looking back I can’t fathom the amount of provisions she must’ve secured in advance. 

I mean, the Sochko men and a table full of post-teenage boys.

I don’t remember her ever cutting us off.

If we were still eating, she’d keep making.  

The tacos were just the best. 

Mortals like me would fill ourselves full and tap out after seven or eight. 

Matt was usually good for a couple more. 

Bill, Danny and John? 

In another league. 

I remember one night in particular. 

Somewhere north of double digits Bill called it quits. 

Danny and John, though, kept goin’.  

Defending home court I think Danny took it as a point of pride. 

John, skinny as a rail, was simply enjoying himself. 

I think Danny tapped out around 14 or so. 

Meanwhile John just kept going … and going. 

I don’t remember how high he climbed that night. 

The number in my head is jumbled, like the way the older boys at Areford playground would keep track of their home runs back in a day. 

I only know that John’s performance that night cemented his Taco Night legacy for all time. 

__ 

For the record, Taco Night was one of two truly epic happenings hosted at the Sochko residence. 

The other: Trivial Pursuit. 

With Mr. Sochko.

While all of us enjoyed hanging out with each other, Mr. Sochko was the main attraction whenever we played. Big B we called him (he was a Bill, too). 

Though it’s been more than 30 years, mention “TP with Big B,” to any of us post-teenagers and watch the smiles conquer our faces. 

It wasn’t just that Mr. Sochko was the wisest person any of us knew. 

Oh my gosh he knew so much. 

It was how he delighted in knowledge.

The best part of our games was when he’d expound on the answers. I can still picture him peering over his glasses and smiling as he’d elucidate on a topic. 

His was the kind of smile that made you lean in as you listened.

The kindest of smiles.   

And we were as ravenous for Big B’s wisdom as we were for Mrs. Sochko’s tacos. 

Big B kicked our asses pretty much every time. 

I mean, he was a wizened citizen of the world playing with boys who didn’t yet know all they didn’t know.

But as I recall his record wasn’t undefeated.

What made that more special was that Mr. Sochko delighted as much in seeing one of us win (for the record, I’m not sure I ever won). In his congratulations he’d share the same generous smile as when he was sharing wisdom. 

There’s a wisdom in that, too, now that I think about it. 

To win a game of Trivial Pursuit when Big B was at table? Not sure our neighborhood offered higher accomplishment.

For me the common thread between Taco and Trivial Pursuit nights was that, in those moments I knew enough to know that I was in the best company.

My friends. 

Bill’s family.

I mean, the best company.

And that knowledge — that wisdom — is as alive and nourishing to me now as when we gathered around Bill’s dining room table.

I know some post-teenage boys — who now know what they don’t know — who would say the same.

And though Mr. and Mrs. Sochko aren’t with us anymore, in my heart it will always be a short walk to Connor Street … to lingering a couple seconds on the front porch before knocking, just to take in the scent of tortillas frying in the pan. 

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Excursions

Aliveness

Met my friend Jeff after work Friday at the Allegheny Elks on the North Side.

For their legendary fish fry. 

Got there a few minutes before he did, so took my place — reverently — at the end of the long line already hugging the side of the building.

While waiting for Jeff to arrive, I took in the majesty of the people standing in front of me, Friday shining under a perfectly Pittsburgh grey sky, the kind that’s never far from rain. 

Curly haired babies, old bald heads and everything in between, seasoned with splashes of black and gold even though all our teams pretty much suck.

It’s the rarest kinds of lines. 

The kind you actually don’t mind waiting in. 

Perfect for catching up with good friends at the end of a long week. 

Imbued with the purest of expectations, for a payoff that’s as close to a sure thing this broken world offers. 

The kind of line that, even if it was longer, you’d be OK with it.

At least I would. 

Jeff joined me after just a few minutes, our big, multi-second hug officially christening my weekend.

We fell into catching up … 

“Happy Anniversary!” 

“Mary says hello …”

“Going to see …”

“Food was uh-mazing …” 

You know, the important stuff.

Didn’t care how long it took us to gain entrance, but when we did ….

The warmth and aromas greeted us like a gentle kiss on the forehead. 

Perfectly preserved as if by pickling, the interior of any Elks Club worth its salt. 

The vestibule adorned with framed photos going back to black and white decades of past Exalted Rulers and their fellow leaders. An old stand-up sign with white magnetic letters highlighting the current crop, including the name of the lodge’s organist. 

I bet she throws down. 

The hand-written menu presenting you with the most important choices you will make this Friday. No possibility of a wrong answer. Neighbor in line said they even have a friend who swears by the stewed tomatoes. I take her word, knowing I’ll never find out as long as mac and cheese, french fries and cole slaw are headlining.

The line inside is also perfectly timed … to allow proper deliberation over your two sides and which of the holy (lower case ’t’) trinity gets voted off stage.

It’s cash only. 

Perfectly priced platters that, regardless of the domination you break, leave you with some singles to choose an individually wrapped, $1 each home made chocolate chip cookie (or two … or three) from the basket in front of the ladies settling you up. 

Even that’s so much better than automatically factoring a cookie into the price. 

There will never not be magic to putting your hand in the cookie jar. 

After paying you leave with your number to forage for a seat. 

We found a couple at the bar. 

Cue angel chorus.

Glorious wide oval, three bartenders persistently bantering and pouring like jazz musicians having a good night, one of ‘em wearing a Chico’s Bail Bonds t-shirt that hi-fived our childhoods. 

Just like waiting in line, waiting for our food was pure gift, zero inconvenience.

From our seats at the bar, we had an open site line to the Allegheny Elks’ house band — members of the Pittsburgh Banjo Club. Accompanied by a bass player and a trumpet player, they strummed old-timey songs as joyfully as you can imagine. 

For me, I equate seeing the Pittsburgh Banjo Club at the Allegheny Elks during Lent akin to seeing Sinatra at the Sands with Count Basie on New Year’s Eve. 

Took me back to when I was six or seven years old, sitting next to my sister Missy on the black piano bench in the living room while she played old songs from a thick songbook. We’d sing the corniest songs — poorly, but with gusto — together as she played.

Waiting for our fish sandwiches, I swear I knew the words to just about every tune the PBC was laying down (“Hello, my baby, hello my honey, ” … “I”m lookin’ over, a four-leaf clover,” … “By the light … of the sil-ver-ee moon ….”). 

Um, polkas included …. zing, boom, tararrel. 

I only wished Missy was there to sing along with me. 

Being the next-to-last Friday before Easter, the place was poppin’ … so it took a long time for the food to come … not that we noticed or even cared.

Gave us time to secure enough provisions to line the bar in front of us with tiny filled cups of Heinz, tartar, malt vinegar, along with packets of hot sauce … 

… and clink glasses of cold beer straight from the tap.  

By the time the food arrived, I was quoting Kurt Vonnegut quoting Fats Waller. 

“Somebody shoot me while I’m happy.” 

For the fish sandwich, they put the empty big bun on top of the ridiculously wide fish, leaving it for you to assemble. 

That’s a glorious bit of experience design right there, giving the audience the satisfaction of placing the final piece of the puzzle. 

You have about twice as much fish as surface area on the bun, which is, of course, somehow, the perfect proportions.

Though you are hungry, though you’ve waited a long time in line and sitting at the bar … you take your sweet time.

You savor.  

You chat between bites. 

You go back for more malt vinegar. 

You smile maybe your week’s widest grin when the bartender asks you if you’re ok if he uses the same glass when you switch over to Yuengling for your second beer.

Your smile gets wider when he says, “I knew you were a good people,” when you answer Yes. 

You ask the female bartender if anyone ever orders the grilled fish, and she testifies that, yes, people do, and yes it’s quite good, and really, she’s not BS-ing, and to validate her testimony, mentions that she’s sleeping with the grill guy.

You bless their unborn children. 

You let yourself fall back in love with the world for a moment when the lady waiting for her pitcher next to you comments that, at first, she mistook your clear plastic cup of malt vinegar — stacked three high on top of its empties — for Jack Daniels … thinking I was already three shots deep and not even halfway through my sandwich.

You politely correct her while confessing, “But, I like the way you think.”

And by the time you’re calling it, with just a couple bites left on the plate, you’re already re-thinking some of the major decisions you’ve recently made in your life. 

“Next time, I think I’m going mac and cheese for both of my sides,” said Jeff, as the universe joined me in silently nodding in agreement. 

You peel yourself off your stools, taking a last deep glorious inhale and a good look around before you backwash out the bar, through the dining area and vestibule, and back out outside to the long sidewalk …

… where the grey sky has gone dark, and the temperature has dipped a few more degrees to remind you that you are alive on the North Side on a Friday night … 

… and a multi-second hug goodbye later — the satisfying last piece in a perfect puzzle — that you were in good company. 

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Postcards, saturdays

Arriving ….

My friend Doug texted me Thursday, which triggered the following exchange. 

I was grateful to Doug for giving me something to look forward to. 

Actually, two things. 

First and foremost, the delight of his company … the gift of picking up the conversation we began when we met as drummers our freshman year at Waynesburg College. 

Secondly, for the gift of the arriving. 

Ever since April who cuts my hair closed her shop on High Street, I’ve missed driving to Waynesburg every fourth Saturday morning.  

I miss driving through Washington just as it’s just waking up and hopping on Interstate 79. 

I don’t take 79 the whole way to Waynesburg, though. 

I fall in love at the Ruff Creek exit.  

By the time I see the sign announcing two miles to Ruff Creek, I am almost giddy. After the exit’s abrupt stop sign, I ease past the gas station on the left and the Church on the right where the cop sat that one time. 

Confirming the coast is clear, I politely punch it and take the two-lane roller coaster climb of a hill as if it’s the roller coaster itself, my one and only chance to clear any slow pokes content with letting life and me pass them by, so that by the top … the only thing in front of me are two lanes irresistibly wide open and waiting … the juiciest Jane Mansfield stretch of swerves and curves in all of Greene County. 

Cue angel chorus. 

Three sets of gently undulating left and right curves carved in an incline …  tempting me and the GTI to a little Saturday morning orneriness. 

At the first left, I leave the right lane and visit the passing lane, following the arc of the bend, and, as long as there are no other cars in sight, swing all the way back into the right as the road snakes. 

Since the hill’s not quite done, I keep my foot on the gas so I can feel the pull into the curve until it releases me into the next left … and then gently back again into the far right. 

By the third left, the sequence is doing the good work of my morning coffee. All of it taking less than a minute. 

The loveliest little moment of aliveness. 

The only-every-four-week sequence made it precious. Something to look forward to. 

Something I’ve missed. 

__

Saturday’s reminder of which was almost but not quite as good as the big bear hug Doug and I greeted each other with, before hunkering down in our cushy red booth.

After sharing my gratitude with Doug for his invitation, for the delight of his company, and the gift in the pilgrimage, we were deep into catching up on family, music, and books when he interrupted me. 

He: “Still looking for your pay it forward?” 

Me: “Yes!”

He: “An older couple just came in and sat down.” 

We called our server over, who was more than happy to conspire with us. 

“I’m going over to take their order right now.”

I stole a glance out of the corner of my eye. 

Older married couple out for Saturday breakfast. 

Late 60’s, maybe 70s. I’m a bad guesser. 

I overheard the husband order Double Meat for his breakfast platter, which made me smile. 

A man after my Dad’s quadruple-bypassed heart, I thought to myself.  

I confessed to Doug that something about older couples always melts me. 

Told him about being at the coffee shop last Saturday as a couple regulars I’ve seen before took the table next to me. It was freezing outside, so they were all bundled up. Kept their toboggans on the whole time. 

They were adorable.

I wasn’t eavesdropping, but sitting next to them, I couldn’t help but notice. 

They talked the whole time. 

Genuine conversation. 

Asked questions of the other. 

Not a phone in sight. 

Made each other laugh on more than one occasion. 

When they left, I asked Nicole, who does the baking and who I heard call them by name, whether they were just friends or ….

“They’re married,” she confirmed. “They are just the sweetest.”

I said aloud how I hoped to live long enough to be an old couple who keeps their toboggans on while sipping their Saturday morning coffee.  

 I shared the above with Doug as we resumed losing ourselves in the swerves and curves of our conversation.

Asking questions of the other. 

Making each other laugh on more than one occasion.

‘Til it was time to get on with our Saturdays.

When we got to the register to pay our bills, another customer was waiting for a to go order. I noticed she was wearing a Dairy Queen shirt. 

I also noticed that the older couple had gotten up to leave, too, and were heading in our direction. 

The wife had a lot of difficulty walking, so they were taking their time, her husband gently holding her arm as they made their way. 

They chatted while they took the time she needed. 

I apprehended that it wasn’t an easy choice for them to decide to go out for breakfast.

They probably don’t do it as often as they used to.

Which maybe made it something they looked forward to this week.

I imagined that their years together have taught them something of arrivings, too.  

I melted in place. 

When they got near the register, we and the DQ person stepped aside to let them pass between us — a humble Saturday morning honor guard — as the husband helped his wife to the restroom. 

It took a minute for them to pass between us. Enough time for the husband to notice the DQ logo on the girl’s shirt, too. 

“Peanut buster parfait,” he said, and smiled as he went past. 

I hi-fived him in my head. 

That was Dad’s favorite, too.

Standing in line with my friend at the register, waiting to pay our bills at the Bob Evans on a Saturday morning. 

The loveliest little moment of aliveness. 

Cue angel chorus.

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Fathers and Sons, The Girls

23 & 20 ….

When Karry was pregnant with Emma, people would ask Peter, who was three at the time, whether he wanted a little brother or a little sister. 

His answer was always the same.

“No.”

That one still cracks me up.

I mean, for a three-year-old … that’s a glorious comeback, right there. 

And when I called Karry’s Mom from the hospital to let her know it was, in fact, a girl … and Betty, in turn, informed Peter (who she was watching while we were at the hospital), he made a beeline for the kitchen sink, climbed in the space underneath it, and shut the door behind him. 

Years later, whenever people would ask me about our kids, I’d find myself saying, “My son’s ____ (16 … 18 … 20, etc.) , and he’s still getting used to the fact that he has a little sister.”

All of the above, true.  

So … to be gathered around the table last night in our tiny dining room, surrounded by all our Christmas and life clutter …

… the four of us slow-savoring every bite of the by-request chocolate meringue flourless cake big brother made his little sister for her 20th birthday … 

… listening to them geeking out with each other about the cake’s cross section …

… him sharing with her how the recipe’s author discovered how to do the marbling on top, and how he was meticulous in following the directions … for fear of all the inherent gluten-free and dairy-free landmines …

… how he’s never been one to follow directions … a proud by-product of the Fordyce stubborness he comes by honestly …

… getting to bear witness to a big brother’s pride in receiving his little sister’s approval.

Forgive me if it’s gonna take me awhile to get used to that fact.

I mean, that he wanted to get it just right for her.

Let’s just say … such sweetness is worth the wait. 

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The Girls

Ripening …

I walked into the kitchen and saw one banana pulled apart from the bunch … set aside and ripening.

Smiled.

Emma’s home.

Went back a couple minutes later and she was there, fixing herself a bowl of cereal at the sink. Still in her pajamas. Wearing her glasses, too.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her in her glasses. Felt what I feel sometimes glancing out the window just as the sun is waking up through the trees … a riot of itself and all its possibilities.

The unearned gift of catching the fleeting moment just before it assumes its responsibilities for a day that will all but take it for granted.

For some reason, seeing her in her glasses has always melted me.

How they’ve always framed a face that holds all the world can become.

She’s only herself in the morning … all poor eyesight and barefoot … and an abiding love for Lucky Charms.

Her glasses bring her into focus for me, and for a fleeting moment, I catch a glimpse of all her younger selves. The ones she doesn’t like being reminded of because she’s too busy looking forward.

It’s for me to look back.

I find myself wanting to keep her in her glasses in the kitchen for as long as I can.

So I mention the bananas … not just the ripe one set aside, but all the ones in the bunch, which have been pulled apart from each other and are starting to brown in the basket.

“I didn’t pull all those apart,” she corrected me.

I just assumed she had.

“Wasn’t me,” she confirmed.

“And that’s not how you ripen bananas, anyway. You keep the bunch together and put a ripe banana beside them.”

Oh.

“Ripe bananas release ethylene. It’s a gas … which breaks down cell walls and converts starch into sugar, eliminating the acid … which causes the other bananas to ripen.”

When she finished, the sophomore biomed major used her index finger to straighten the right side of her glasses, unconsciously.

A riot of herself and all of her possibilities.

Turned around and went back to her old room to savor her Lucky Charms.

I stood in the kitchen for a moment … in the still warm space between her presence and her absence.

Neither looking back nor looking forward … just awed by the sunrise.

Ripening, I guess.  

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Fathers and Sons

The Boys of Spring

It’s pushing past noon when I hear my son, upstairs and recently awake, deftly float a question to his mother. 

“If I went to Shorty’s, would you want me to bring you one back?” 

It was an exquisite ask. The phrasing, brilliant. 

He didn’t ask if she wanted to go to lunch. He didn’t say that he was even going. And he didn’t ask “Do you want anything from Shorty’s?”

He served the proposition on a platter, and in so doing, made it irresistible. 

I couldn’t hear Karry’s response, but after he and I made a successful post office drop just before their 1 p.m. close, we found ourselves parallel parking into the one open spot along West Chestnut Street. 

Couldn’t tell you the last time we hit up Shorty’s on a Saturday afternoon. Actually, I could if I looked at my camera reel. Which is funny when I think about it, because we get exactly the same thing every time. The only thing that changes in my photo documentation is whether the plates are sitting on the counter or — if no open seats there — a table. Makes me think of that time at the newspaper when the fellas in the sports department gave grief to the guy who’d laid out the section’s cover page the day before. To accompany a preview of the Kentucky Derby, the guy included the head shots of all the horses. Which, when you think about it, is ridiculous … since all the horses’ faces pretty much look the same.

But, is it any more ridiculously logical than taking the same photo of hot dogs again and again … and again? 

Point is, it’d been a minute since we jingled Shorty’s door open on a Saturday afternoon, pausing a beat to acknowledge the Grill Guy at the Window before surveying the, um, untouched-by-time, interior for an open seat. 

Can I just say?

Depositing one’s keister atop a stool at Shorty’s lunch counter on a Saturday afternoon is one of life’s great capital “A” Arrival-ings. 

It’s an exhale. 

An unburdening. 

A ‘We Made It’ through the week. 

A We Are Here Now.

There will likely be fist bumps.

Because you know. 

You know that within a minute of sitting down, one of the waitresses will float in front of you and ask if you’re ready to order.

You know exactly what you’re going to say. Sh*t … you knew the moment you made the conscious choice to gift your Saturday. The only decision requiring any deliberation is whether you and your co-pilot are feeling trusting enough to share a large fry with gravy, or go with two smalls to guarantee a 50-50 split. 

You know that, seconds after your order, your waitress will yell loud enough for both the Grill Guy at the Window and the Guy Dunking Fries in the Kitchen to hear. 

You know that the sound of her voice will register to your ears the way you imagine some folks hear opera. 

You know that within 90 seconds, your plated dogs will be placed in front of you. 

For me, two with everything. For the boy, one every, one ketchup and onions. In Shorty’s parlance “everything” does not connote gratuitousness (i.e. the kitchen sink), but, rather, sufficient-ness, lacking of nothing — finely (and I mean, finely) diced onions, a squirt of yellow mustard, and a slather of their no-beans-just-a-bit-of-ground-beef chili. Cue angel chorus. 

You know that your fries with gravy will trail just a minute behind, since you asked for them to be well-done, which is how the pros do it, FWIW.

You know that you will wait for everything to arrive before you and your co-pilot make ceremony of your respective first bites.  

You know that you will allow a couple extra beats for your co-pilot to lightly crop dust the fries with a sprinkle of salt and then as many morocco shakes of the pepper as it takes to ensure thorough coverage across the plate. 

You know that it will be perfect, and not in any kind of throwaway sense. 

During our reverie I found myself conjuring a passage I copied into my journal a year or so ago. I poorly paraphrased it for Peter, but gave him enough to catch my drift, and nod in affirmation.  

The passage is from a tribute that Joe Posnanski wrote back in 2020 upon the passing of the writer Roger Khan.  Appearing in The Athletic, Posnanski wrote of how Khan’s masterwork, “The Boys of Summer,” changed his life. The piece struck me in the moment and has stuck with me since for two reasons. “The Boys of Summer” changed my life, too. It was the first book I remember reading for pleasure in college, the summer after my junior year. A book that taught me that good sportswriters were just good writers who happened to write sports. A book that, looking back, was among a small handful of cosmic forces that spat me into giving sportswriting a shot after graduation. The second reason was the exquisite language Posnanski used when describing Khan’s chronicle of his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers. I looked it up in my journal so I could get it right here.

“The Boys of Summer” might not be the best book I have read, just like “The Princess Bride” might not be the best movie I have seen and spaghetti and meatballs might not be the best meal I have had and Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke” might not be the best song I have heard and chocolate cake might not be the best dessert I’ve eaten. But it is, to me, the most perfect book, just as the rest are the most perfect examples of joy. 

Those might not be the best lines I’ve scribbled into my journal. But, to me, they are the most perfect lines.

And capture exactly how I feel about Shorty’s on a Saturday afternoon. The only reason Posnanski didn’t mention Shorty’s by name in his enumeration is that he’s obviously never tried to find a parking spot on West Chestnut Street on his lunch hour. 

“This is perfect,” I actually said aloud to Peter when swabbing the last fry across the bottom of our plate to soak as much of the remaining gravy as its absorptive properties would allow. He’d gifted me the last few on the plate after realizing the significant dent he’d put in the pile. 

We shoulda gone two smalls. 

A second later our waitress set down the brown to-go bag containing Karry’s go-to — one with ketchup, mustard and onions. 

Asks us if we need anything else. 

The question always begets a hesitation. Born of both respect and serious consideration.

You know you could totally go for a third, no problem. You’ve done it in the past with zero regrets. There was also that one time you may or may not have gone for a fourth. 

But you remind yourself that the experience is not about gratuitousness but, rather, sufficient-ness.

So Peter settles up with the grill guy at the window, who doubles as the cash-only cashier.

And we backwash out the door, appreciating the gift of the slight downhill walk back to the car and the little bit of sun peeking through the clouds … 

… lacking of nothing. 

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The Girls

Pluck

The girls are out for errands after going to church. Peter’s still sleeping. I’m alone at the dining room table, looking out through the screen door on a rainy Sunday morning. The poblano plant is finally starting to sprout. “Look at them … they are mutants!” Emma gushed when she went out to inspect earlier this morning. Until she said it, I hadn’t noticed. But they’re now the size of chubby toes, and have finally caught up to the jalapenos we’ve been enjoying the past couple weeks. 

The porch garden was foremost among Emma and Karry’s experiments this summer. My wife suppressed her pessimism born of past failed backyard garden attempts sabotaged by the gluttonous cemetery deer who, for years, have roamed and ravaged our neighborhood as expectant as tourists with lobster bibs. Her youth nourished by lush family gardens in the country, Karry fully indulged Emma’s initiative. As my wife is a resigned realist, I found her sanguine act significant. 

So they rimmed the perimeter of our porch with seeded planters of tomatoes, lettuce, green beans, jalapenos, poblanos and onions. Neighbored them with basil, oregano, spearmint, and cilantro. For months, Emma dutifully tended her little green village daily. The monitoring of progress has elicited from the girls consistent spasms of giddiness. I know this not from direct participation, but through the evening glee that wafts through the screen door back into the house. Admittedly, some subjects have fared better than others. But even the humblest of harvests have brought small joys.

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